The day was warm even under an overcast sky and Hilary, uncomfortable, shifted his weight. But you—you have a good face. No sterner head was ever beheld beneath the cowl of a monk, or the bonnet of an inquisitor. Wood had the advantage of her husband in point of years, being on the sunny side of forty,—a period pronounced by competent judges to be the most fascinating, and, at the same time, most critical epoch of woman's existence,—whereas, he was on the shady side of fifty,—a term of life not generally conceived to have any special recommendation in female eyes. At this moment, a coach passed them, and was instantly hailed by Thames. “Anna, you are the dearest, bravest sister in the world,” she cried. How old are you?’ ‘I have nineteen years, and it is quite unimportant.
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